


Happy Birthday

by starsandgraces



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-14
Updated: 2010-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-12 15:58:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/126608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandgraces/pseuds/starsandgraces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chekov celebrates his eighteenth birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Birthday

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired entirely by [this (NC-17, NSFW) artwork](http://community.livejournal.com/st_reboot/581309.html) by [froggie](http://froggie.livejournal.com/). Beta'd by [withthepilot](http://withthepilot.livejournal.com/).

"It's okay, Pavel," McCoy says into his ear, smoothing his cool palms down Chekov's bare sides. He curls his fingers around Chekov's hip possessively, lifting one hand to check the blindfold over his eyes is positioned well enough to stay put.

Chekov exhales sharply in frustration, pursing his lips. "This is not what I was expecting. Maybe cake, maybe something wrapped up; I did not think I would be the something wrapped up."

"Long day?" McCoy asks. He keeps his hands moving until he feels some of the tension leach out of Chekov's body.

"You know it has been, the Keptin has been much worse than usual," Chekov says, half-turning to face McCoy and looking somewhat horrified under the blindfold. McCoy can imagine why. "So, please. I would like my present, now, please?"

"Yeah, you'll get your present." He laughs at the look on Chekov's face and nips lightly below the blindfold, beneath his ear, marking the sensitive skin there. Chekov shudders, letting out a breathy sigh and pushing his ass back against McCoy's cock. "Is that what you want for your birthday, kid? You want me to fill you up?"

" _Da_ , da, yes..." he says with another push of his hips, his memory conveniently short enough to forget his annoyance from before.

"What if I just fill you with my fingers?" McCoy reaches for the lube and squeezes it across his hand, then nudges the tip of one finger against Chekov's entrance teasingly. Chekov makes a noise like he's going to break and immediately grasps McCoy's hip, nodding almost more to himself than to McCoy. It doesn't make it any less of an invitation, so McCoy presses the finger inside him slowly, soon followed by another as he stretches Chekov with a practised ease. Chekov takes his cue and starts to fuck himself slowly on McCoy's fingers.

Adding a third finger and speeding them up just slightly in response to Chekov's body, McCoy exhales against the nape of his neck, scraping his teeth against Chekov's hairline. Chekov arches his whole body and quickens his movements as well, gasping something convoluted and filthy-sounding in Russian before he says, " _Please_."

McCoy groans. "You're going to be the death of me." He doesn't stop moving his fingers, though, pressing them in at a deeper angle until Chekov shudders and moans needily, his mouth hanging open. It's pretty much what McCoy's been waiting for, and he quickly slicks himself up and replaces his hand with the head of his cock, slowly pushing into Chekov until he grunts with impatience and drops his hips down forcefully, arching his back as McCoy slides all the way inside him.

He curls his fingers around McCoy's thighs as much as he can, digging them in as he uses the leverage to start riding him, slowly at first. But then he speeds up, leaving fingertip-shaped marks on McCoy's thighs from the added pressure.

"Careful," he says with a grimace, moving his palms over Chekov's pale back and gently pushing until he leans forwards, keeping his grip on McCoy's thighs. Hissing at the new angle, Chekov works his hips faster, muscles contracting with every bump of McCoy's cock against his prostate. "Yeah, that's— _good_." He bites his bottom lip, worrying it between his teeth at the sight in front of him.

With one hand pressed firmly against his back to keep him in place, McCoy skims the other over Chekov's side and stomach, tracing nonsensical patterns over and over again until Chekov moans and loses control of his rhythm.

Holding onto Chekov's right thigh, he wraps the fingers of his other hand around Chekov's erection, pumping him in a slow counterpoint to his thrusts. Chekov squirms on his cock delightfully and pants, finally relinquishing control and leaning back against McCoy's chest, inching his thighs further apart. In turn, McCoy hooks his chin over Chekov's shoulder, mouthing lightly at the side of his neck. "So fuckin' gorgeous," he says hotly and thrusts into Chekov quickly, his hips moving fluidly. He moans again, a moan that McCoy knows only too well, and the noise goes right to his dick—the way it always does.

McCoy strokes him faster, teasing beneath the head of his cock with the pad of his thumb but not quite giving him enough, until Chekov is right on the edge and almost delirious with it. That's when McCoy relents and brushes his thumb over the slit, squeezing him slowly in the way he knows Chekov loves.

Chekov lets out a faint, shaky gasp as he comes, spilling himself over McCoy's fingers and his own stomach with small jerks of his hips. McCoy kisses the side of his neck before he starts thrusting faster into Chekov's pliant body, lifting his hand to skim sticky fingers across Chekov's lips, grunting when he licks at them and then sucks them into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks.

"Shit, _god_ ," McCoy manages to get out before he's coming as well. His orgasm isn't half as subtle as Chekov's, shaking them both from head to toe as he bucks into him almost desperately. Chekov lets out a tired whimper at the feel of it, tightening his fingers over McCoy's hand. They stay like that for a moment, trying to catch their breath, then McCoy runs his hands under Chekov's thighs, urging him to lift himself off his cock before he lets Chekov reach up and take off the blindfold.

When he can see again, Chekov turns in McCoy's lap and kisses him carefully, pushing him down to lie flat on the mattress. He runs his fingers lightly over McCoy's chest and arms, touching him everywhere he can. McCoy is used to this now, this strange ritual of reassurance Chekov needs to go through every time they have sex. It's never urgent, just slow and sweet and slightly sensual, and McCoy is coming to enjoy it, even though Chekov refuses to talk about it when he asks.

"That wasn't such a bad present, was it?" he says after a while, not really meaning it as a question and not minding when Chekov doesn't answer him. "Happy birthday, kid."

"Happy birthday to me," Chekov murmurs sleepily before turning his face against McCoy's shoulder.

McCoy smiles in spite of himself.


End file.
